This Dance We Must Do
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: The mysterious death of Aerys Targaryen leaves the throne to his eldest son. With power concentrated in his hand, Rhaegar chooses leniency to revenge for those who have been declared traitors. There is one thing he wants in return. Eddard Stark does not dare refuse.
1. Prologue

Wylla pressed the wet cloth to the woman's face, wiping away the beads of perspiration. She ought to have kept well away, she thought, dimly aware that the other woman standing at the foot of the bed was still speaking words of encouragement. How Wylla longed to shut the midwife up.

It had been three days; three gruelling days of sitting by the bedside and listening to sobs of pain. The girl was dying. It was clear. Her skin was ashen, her eyes were glazed over. In fact, Wylla doubted that she understood a thing that was being said to her. The cloth slid lower to one wet cheek. "She'll not last, Madge," she spoke over her shoulder to the midwife. Whatever had the Prince thought?

"Keep that wicked tongue of yours in your head," the midwife replied without an ounce of delicacy. "Come, m'lady, one more time, push."

A weak cry passed the girl's lips, but somehow she managed to see the instructions through. Not that it was of much help. As soon as the babe was without, she fell back against her pillows, panting and weeping. From the end of the bed there came no sound.

She had been right. Wylla had known the moment the kingsguard carried her up the steps and into the bedchamber. It had been clear that there was no pleasant ending in sight.

Wylla abandoned the labouring woman's side and peered at what the midwife held. She gasped. Poor lady. "We should wrap the child up," she said softly. Then, gazing at the Northerner girl, she heaved a sigh. "Hardly seems fair."

"What do you care," the older woman snapped. "You said she wouldn't make it anyway."

"Not with the heavy bleeding she won't," Wylla assured the other. "I've seen it with my own mother. A few days of fever, mayhap a week or two and she won't be of this world any longer."

The door was pushed open so suddenly that the two women jumped. The white clad figure in the doorway looked at the two of them. "Well? What goes on here?" the man questioned. The look on his face spoke of impatience.

"The child had arrived," the old midwife said, holding the unmoving bundle up, "and has gone as well." The last part was whispered, presumably for the benefit of the mother who might yet be able to retain words and meaning. "The mother is in a bad way as well, ser. 'Twould best serve her to find a maester."

The man motioned for the bundle to be brought to him. He took the child from the hands of the midwife and gazed down at the small, blue face. "A stillbirth?"

"Aye," the second woman confirmed. "Couldn't do nothing for either of them."

It must have happened when the girl fell, Wylla reckoned. That was when the bleeding had started. It was a wonder she'd not been infected and had lived as long as she had. What had she been thinking, running up and down the stairs?

"It would seem my services are no longer needed," the midwife cut in. "I shall leave after I am done cleaning."

A sharp nod of the head was the answer received. The kingsguard took the child away. None of the women presented protested, least of all the youngest one who seemed to be fading fast. Madge returned to her business, stripping away wet and bloodied cloth and clothes. Wylla helped as well. But she truly did not see the point. "We should just put a clean dress on her." Not that it would matter. She would bleed all over that one as well.

But Madge was doing something else. Wylla turned here away and saw to bundling the stained sheets together. The old woman coughed and Wylla heard her shoes moving against the floorboard. She duped the linens on the ground and pulled out clean ones. The lady would not be able to appreciate it, very likely, but it was still their duty. And there was some pretty coin to be had for it.

"Do you think she'll wake up?" Wylla questioned suddenly, turning around with an armful of pristine sheets.

Madge shrugged. "Depends on her own strength. She has cheated death once. Let us see if the gods shall be good enough a second time."

It did not look as if the gods much cared for her. Wylla looked at her face as she held her up for Madge to spread the sheets. The face that had started a war, Men and their prides, she thought with a hint of distaste. If she died, she did so because no one ever listened to her. A pity, she might have had a pleasant life.

And if she lived, 'twould be just as bad as having died. She had lost her family and most likely her lands. She'd not been able to give the daughter she had promised. And hurtful words had been said when the Prince had left. If the girl lived, she would spend her days wishing she had died.

Wylla's eyes fell upon one of the pillows. Death would be a kindness.

"Come along, Wylla, and leave the lady to her rest," Madge instructed, pulling on the other's hand with surprising force. For a moment, Wylla hesitated, still eyeing the pillow. She could do nothing with Madge there however. The notion was abandoned as she was dragged away. It seemed she could be of no aid the girl.

"Madge, 'tis unkind. You could end her misery," Wylla complained softly.

In response, Madge slapped the back of her head. "I save lives, not take them. And if you ever say anything of this like again I shall personally cut that tongue of yours out."

Wylla huffed but offered no more words. It was no business of hers in any case what happened to Lyanna Stark. She had simply felt sorry for the girl, to have been used as she had ad then left at the mercy of fate. What was done could not be undone

Madge walked in front of her, hurrying own the spiralling stairs. It seemed both of them were eager to leave behind the tower and the tragedy that was to come. For what need would the Dragon Prince have of the lady now? Certainly, that was the question.

Barely blinking at the three men who were lighting a fire, Wylla led Madge to her cart. The older woman left without saying much else.

"Wylla," the lord commander called out, "find us something to put the ashes in."

Indeed, she should. Who would dare take from the great Prince the fruit of his labour. But Wylla knew well enough what it would be to go against the word of the White Bull. The woman nodded her head and re-entered the tower in search of that which might be fitting to hold the ashes of a royal child, bastard born though she be.


	2. Little Lion Man

The Prince had won. Rhaegar Targaryen was coming back. Jaime kept his eyes upon the madman that sat the throne. His Queen had been given a seat at the foot of the large stairs and despite the bruised cheek she sported, Rhaella truly looked joyful at receiving the news. And who wouldn't be? The perfect Dragon Prince was to returns with the traitors in chains.

If the Prince had a lick of sense, he would gather even half his armed forces within the dratted keep and cut off the Mad King where he stood. Alas that could not be done. The people would only frown upon a king who had killed his own kin. The gods were sure to curse him and the realm. As if the Seven Kingdoms were not already plagued with such hardships.

Princess Elia Martell lingered in the hall as well. Neither of her children were anywhere to be seen. Jaime suspected that she wished to protect them from their grandfather. It was well known throughout court that the King was less than pleased with his eldest son's offspring. The reason, nobody knew truly. And it hardly mattered.

He was a danger. The knowledge brought Jaime to his vows once more. He had promised before the Seven and the realm that he would obey this man, the man who until not very long past planned to send them all to the heavens with wildfire smoke. To think that anyone would be willing to sacrifice so many lives and for no reason whatsoever. Servants would live even in the event that the throne changed hands. But nay, he would see them all burn for the simple satisfaction of leaving his opponents with a bad aftertaste in their mouth and the scent of scorched meat in their nostrils.

If ever there was a man more deserving of death, Jaime had not heard of his. Instinctively, his hand travelled to the broadsword he carried. Green eyes flashes from one corner of the hall to the other. The armed men had mostly relaxed their stances, as if relieved. But they could not possibly know true relief. Not the one Jaime knew. They had little idea of what the King had planned, of what would have awaited them had the Prince failed.

Within the shadows a figure moved. Jaime's eyes trained upon it. It was Varys. The Spider, they called him and truly a name more fitting there could not have been. The man waded through the shadows, making his way past them into the light.

He approached the foot of the stirs until he stood before the Queen. Jaime listened to his report on the losses. What business was it of his how many losses there had been? The young Kingsguard continued to maintain his stone-like mien. as best if he heard and saw nothing at all.

King ordered for wine and food to be given out. meant to celebrate a victory he had taken no part in, the winning of a war that was of his own making as well.

Disgust made the Lannister's stomach churn unpleasantly. He was dismissed, ordered to take some rest by the man he owed his allegiance to. Jaime did not hesitate to do so. Prolonged exposure to the joy of such a creature could only make him ill, he told himself, gaze drifting unwittingly to the scorch marks upon the flagstone floors.

Jaime made his way out the doors, walking down the deserted hallway. His swordhand had locked around the handle of his weapon as thoughts of murder came with a vengeance. He wanted, more than anything else, at the moment, to return to the hall and run the King clean through. He wanted to never see a livid bruise upon the Queen's skin or red angry scratches running down her neck and arms. He wanted his words to matter, his vow to mean something more than the bitter taste of regret filling his mouth every time he happened to look at Rhaella Targaryen.

His grip relaxed and dropped away completely. His wants mattered not at all. He had sworn an oath. The reminder woke another kind of anger within him. Why could the man not be worthy of his position. Jaime thought not of past mistresses or of fits of rage. He thought of brutish behaviour, an ugliness of the mind that seldom was seen in the world.

At that point something sounded out from behind him. Jaime stopped in his tracks, frozen, a sense of awareness crawling through him. He looked over his shoulder. The person had not bothered to hide or rather had not meant to.

The Dornish Princess gave him a long look, as if to ask if she might join him. Jaime nodded slowly. Prince Rhaegar's wife approached him cautiously. There was anger and resentment hidden behind her placid expression. Though for different reasons than his, she too raged at the fate dealt to her.

"Have you thought about it?" she questioned as they continued their way down the corridor side by side.

What Jaime noticed with some perplexity was that he had finally outgrown her. The notion, so out of place, nearly tugged a smile from him. Still, he resisted. "I have my vows," he reminded her kindly. Vows that would not assuage his guilt when next he saw another bruise upon the Queen's flesh.

"Words," the Princess said dismissively. "Mere words. They mean nothing. No one would have to know. There are ways."

"Give me until nightfall," the Kingsguard insisted. She asked no small thing of him. And though he would like nothing better, Jaime could not make the decision lightly. Not with Rhaegar Targaryen returning.

"Very well," Elia allowed. "Until nightfall. You know where to find me." She stopped, forcing him to continue his road alone. Jaime did not look back at her. But he did hear her speak once more. "The choice is yours, Jaime Lannister. The sword is the one that carries power."

Nightfall came quick enough. Too much so for Jaime's mind. He feared the decision he had made and revelled in it in equal measure. The white cloak lay discarded upon the ground and his pristine garments had been thrown upon the bed with nary a thought.

Sitting upon a stool, clad in woollen breeches and a tunic, clothes that he had worn as Jaime Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock, the young man continued to sharpen his sword, dragging the whetstone upon the edges of his weapon, slowly, minutely, with such great care that one might think he wished to make ordinary steel into Valyrian fare. The heavy ringing of the tower bell marked the late hour.

The sound of the death knell dissipated slowly, ever so slowly. It was time.

Dragging himself to his feet, Jaime slashed through the empty air with strong swings. The steel sang.

He donned a dark cloak.

Without waiting a moment longer, he hurried past the doorway, before his conscience could get the best of him. Murder, despite its circumstances, was still just murder. The justification eased his mind a tad though. The cause was good, even if the means were questionable.

Finally, after such long a time, Jaime could be the knight he wished to be. The man he had always wanted to be. Even if no one knew it. Even if no recognition would ever be given to him. He would have the knowledge of his deed and it would suffice.

As she had promised the Princess waited for him just beyond the gate of Maegor's Holdfast. In her left hand she held a small lantern. A half burned candle spread about the whisper of a light. In its dimness he could barely make out the deep brown of the cloak the woman wore, but her skin shone with the same golden quality as always. He did not bow to her, he did not even give as much as a single nod. Neither did she.

Jaime glanced about, to make sure they were truly alone. With the war ranging, most of the keep's guards had followed the prince. Those who remained guarded the Red Keep's gates and they were spread thin. Then gods only knew what would have happened if news had come of the Prince's defeat. Assured that no one beside them was there, the young man parted his cloak enough for the steel to be touched by the warm light.

It was then that the Princess nodded. Her face covered and unseen, she turned away from Jaime and began walking. He followed her into Maegor's Holdfast, both quiet as ghosts. How fitting, Jaime could not help but think. They would be creating a ghost of their own after all.

The Princess stopped before the unguarded solar door. She spoke not a word, yet placed the candle on the ground and removed her cowl. "Blow the candle out when you are done," she instructed, leaving unsaid that he should not linger long. The candle had almost burned out.

And then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows, leaving Jaime wondering if he'd dreamt it all. But nay, the candle still burned and he stood before the solar. It must have all been real. He breathed in deeply, hand touching the cool wood surface. It was time, his mind announced.

Jaime pushed the door open and entered the chamber. The King was clearly surprised at the intrusion, beady eyes widening at the sigh of company. He staggered to his feet, tangled hair falling around his like a curtain.

"Who are you?" the monarch demanded, voice trembling with fear, or mayhap sleep. Jaime could not tell, for his blood roared in his hears and his heartbeat thundered. "Look here, wretch," the man spat, "you will tell me who you are this instant or I will have you hanged."

Instead of answering through words Jaime pulled back his cowl, allowing his face to come in plain sight. The King made a small sound of disbelief. "Lannister. What are you doing here? I sent you away to rest." The worry was starting to evaporate. Jaime allowed him to continue without interruption. "A more conscious man I have yet to see." The madman sat back down.

Jaime shut the door at a long last. He barred it as well. The Princess had assured him that no one lingered that late in the hallways, but he had to be sure there were to be no interruptions. He had worked too hard to be discouraged by footfalls coming from without.

"So? Tell me, boy. What are you doing here?" the King asked once more, as Jaime turned around to look at him.

The sight was truly one taken from night terrors. The tangles hair aside, the Mad King sported a thin, emaciated face that spoke of long suffering. He was not yet in his old age, but wrinkles cut across the expanse of pale skin making him seem at least a decade older than he truly was. How could a man with such an important role allow himself top live like an animal. Jaime's eyes fell to the long fingernails, coiling in on themselves.

"I thought to return to my duty as you say, Your Majesty," he finally answered.

"Just like your father," Aerys noted. "Duty, duty, duty. Is that all that exists to you, I wonder." He seemed amused for whatever reason. "Nay, indeed. There was Joanna as well." The mention of his mother brought a tenseness within him. Jaime struggled to keep from grabbing for his sword. He wished to know what was next to be said. "Fair Joanna. Such a pity she died in a pool of her own blood."

It was mayhap the first time he'd heard the King be sympathetic to any sort of tragedy. Had he truly cared for Joanna. Jaime could not be certain. Yet even if he did, his sins were too many and the revelation much too late to be of any aid.

With a slow motion, Jaime drew his cloak away so he might unsheathe his sword. The King was lost in his mumbling at the moment and failed to notice. But Jaime was certain his luck would not last long. As if the gods themselves had shouted out a warning, the ruler of the Seven King glanced at his just then. Eyes fell upon the flash of steel and he pushed himself back.

Jaime lunged forward, thrusting the sword towards his quarry even as a half-groan made it past the King's lips. The sword embedded itself into soft flesh, cutting through skin and tearing through muscle. The only distance between them was kept by the desk. Without taking his eyes off his victim or loosing his grip of the sword's handle, Jaime jumped upon the table.

The sword moved upwards with him and Aerys' head slammed against the wall with a sound of pain. Jaime's hand pressed upon his mouth to keep the yells from tumbling out. Though he reckoned the shock was so great his precautions were not needed. Yet why take such a risk.

"Too long," he said, "too long have you plagued this realm and too long have you tortured innocents." His other hand moved away from the sword, barely registering the feeble grasp the King hand on his wrist. He shook away the man's hold and caught his head in a strong grip. "The time has come to end this."

He pulled the man's head forwards and then slammed it back into the wall with such force that skin split and blood splattered upon the wall. But Jaime was not deterred. He repeated the process even as Aerys struggled to escape. This had to be the end; it just had to. The King's frame slumped against his attacker. Jaime paused.

His own grip relaxed and the young man pulled away to survey the result of his work.

Without support the body slid down the wall until it finally fell over. For a moment Jaime stared at the corpse, almost awed. The King was dead. Shocked laughter bubbled past his lips. The King was well and truly of the other world. The body oozed blood. Jaime noticed the red liquid spreading over the stone floors towards him.

"I shan't be branded a murderer," he murmured, stepping backwards. Empty eyes stared up at him. "I shan't," Jaime hissed. He had done what he had to and he did not regret it.

Looking down at his hands, he finally noticed that the sword was not there and small droplets of crimson painted his skin. Jaime wiped his hand on his leg and bent down to retrieve his sword. The steel was stained as well. He hid it within his cloak.

Out of sight, out of mind. If only it were that easy. Alas, it was not. He remained as he was, eyes drawn to the carnage. It was riveting, for whatever reason. The gods knew why he had not done it earlier. It might have saved a lot of lives.

He hadn't however. And the immutable past was not to be pondered long over.

Finally able to draw himself away, Jaime left the dead man upon the ground and lid the bar out of place, opening the door. The candle was still next to the door, where the Princess had left it. Jaime was without in a blink of an eye. He picked the candle up and blew it out.

A soft sound could be heard somewhere ahead as if in response to his actions. Jaime stared suspiciously in that direction. There was nothing to be seen however. The whole smaller keep seemed truly deserted. Jaime leaned back against the door with a small sigh of relief.

The respite was at its close, as the young knight came to find after a mere few second. The sound, whatever it had been, returned. Closer. Louder. And it came from within the solar. Terror struck the young lion.

What if he had been mistaken and the King yet lived. In his mind Jaime conjured an image of the injured man crawling about the room, making his way slowly to the door. So vivid was his vision that even the trail of blood behind the body glistened. Nausea filled him. He imagined the bend form using the wall as support, rising steadily to his feet and pressing against the door way.

Muscles locked tight, Jaime whirled around to stare at the heavy slab of wood, the only object between him and his broken vows. A creak filled his mind, shrill and terrible as the cry of the dying. It pierced his skull.

Jaime covered his ears to protect himself, but it was no use. He could still hear it. It was there. Behind the door. The King waited for him to come back. He waited to yell out for guards, or have them found come morning. And Jaime would pay then.

What had been done to the rebels would be child's play.

He could not stand it. Jaime drew in a shuddering breath, blood-smeared fingertips touching the door once more. His heart beat wildly in his chest, pounding heavily. He had to see. He had to make sure he'd left behind a body. The knight closed his eyes and tried to calm himself; his hands were shaking.

The door was pushed open with a strong shove and Jaime stumbled within a second time. But, to his horror, the solar was empty. There was no Mad King lying upon the ground. Wildly, the young man looked around within the shadows, expecting the gored body to jump out at any time.

But he was alone. Blood still stained the floor, but the King was nowhere to be seen. Resisting the temptation to run his eyes, Jaime walked to one of the windows. He peered down. There was nothing he could make out in the thick darkness of the night.

It was best to just go, he decided, an inexplicable fright wrapping cold fingers around his heart, squeezing tightly. He could not remain where he was. Jaime turned towards the door once more and fled from the room.

If they found the madman dashed upon the ground come daylight, then so be it.

* * *

 **A/N: So what do you think? Jaime is a difficult character to write, at least for me. I hope I did well.**


	3. Black Flies

The metallic tang of blood lingered in Ned's moth long after the split lower lip healed. The despair remained however. It lurked in the dark shadows of his mind, rearing its ugly head t every opportunity, restless and vicious with a taste for the macabre.

It certainly did not help that he'd been chained for most of the journey with scant water and even less food. But that was the fate of the defeated. Ned supposed he ought to count himself among those of good fortune that the Prince had not taken his head, as was the man's right. Relief was a tired whisper of acknowledgement that the King's son, while having captured and chained his foes, did not go after their families. At least Catelyn was safe. She would not be made to suffer his failure, no more than she would need concern herself with fulfilled her duty to him from the point onwards. He was a dead man in a sense.

The Red Keep towered before them, large and impressive. It was likely the hunger and thirst that made a giant out of what ought to have been a mere jest in comparison to Winterfell. It was still chilling to the bones to have before the site of his father and brother's death.

They entered the keep.

Was Lyanna there, Ned wondered, rising his eyes to the flying banner of the Dragon. Was his sister somewhere in there, wilting as all winter roses did beyond the Neck? He wished to see her again. To ask her about a great many matters. Had Brandon been right to claim the Prince had abducted her? Had father died in vain? Had a war been fought for the whims of a child?

It did not sound like Lyanna Stark. But Ned had never imagined he would be Lord of Winterfell either. He had never thought he would have his brother's bride and yet had her he did. The world threw all manners of surprises to the living. Only the dead rested. That he had not considered though, that his sister might be among the resting. He had not wanted to. Not with father gone; not with Brandon gone. She had to be alive. Lyanna Stark had to be alive; at lest she if no one else.

Ned needed to know that come what may, he could at the very least assure himself of her wellbeing. The Prince might well love her as was being claimed. Or he might be using her for her youth and fertility as other said. It might even be that she was a mere pastime for him, a stepping stone towards something grander. But to Ned she would always be his sister. Rhaegar Targaryen might have crossed swords with Robert for the girl, but they held little claim. There was no blood between them.

The cart drew to a halt and one of the guards approached the door. Behind him came two other men, holding up their swords in warning. As if any of the prisoners had the slightest of chances to escape. Certainly it would not be Jon Arryn with his broken wrist that would attempt to swing a sword at the guards. Nor would Robert with his oozing wounds. Ned himself sported a long cut along his leg. It was a surprise in itself that they yet lived. Others had had less luck and they were rotting in chains along the Kingsroad.

The metal door swung open with a shrill cry and they were ordered out. Ned was pulled by one of the men, resulting in his foot catching upon an edge and pain erupting in his leg. A shuddering cry left his lips as he crashed to the ground. He looked up into the face of a grinning guard and was caught completely by surprise as the tip of a sword made it under the man's chin.

"The Prince was clear about the treatment of his hostages." He recognised the voice. It was Jon Connington. "You will pay for you insolence, foot soldier." It was still he who bent to retrieve the silent wolf and keep him upright when he made it to his feet. "Lord Stark." 'Twasn't as much a greeting as an acknowledgement.

Ned shuddered. He was not Lord Stark. He was never supposed to have inherited the title. There was no reply to be had from the injured man. Connington mere passed him to another man. His companions were unloaded as well, but they were not led away together. Ned would have asked after their whereabouts or even where it was that he was being taken. But his throat could only manage to work convulsively. No sound came out despite his best attempts.

Thus he was forced to endure the silence for the guard helping him was not prone to speech, nor to doling out information. It became clear to him where he was being led after a few moments of seemingly listless floating through the ether. The dungeons were to be his home.

The cell he was led to looked much like the holding cells of Winterfell. Straw had been lain on the ground, a pile of it sat in one corner arranged in a great lump. Presumably that was to be the bed. A pail stood in another corner. He was pushed within and the door was shut on him with a loud thud, the metal scratching against the stone floor.

There was a small window through which sunrays or moonshine could slither through, but it was not big enough for anything but his arm to make it through. The width, however, was generous enough. At least he would know the passage of the time. Grateful for the small mercy, Ned did his best to hobble towards the straw pile. He lowered himself upon it, facing the high ceiling and closed his eyes, exhausted and lightheaded.

He never knew when it was that sleep took him. But consciousness came back with a vengeance and a loud sound that could wake the dead.

His smarting head throbbed as the grating noise invaded the silence. He opened his eyes in time to see the door opening and a shadowed figure stepping in. By the weak light, Ned determined that night had fallen. He tried to sit up, but was forced back down as hands pushed against his shoulders.

"Lie back down," a smooth voice ordered. The man was unfamiliar. By the torchlight, Ned could make out the face of a young man with curling light hair and striking dark eyes. "I shall look at your wounded leg," the man announced, going for said leg. "Remain as still as you can."

The wound had been bandaged after the fighting was done. But as all wartime treatment went, it had been rushed and careless, enough to keep him alive, but nothing more. It could well be infected. And from the look on the man's face as his boot was cut away and the bandages unwrapped, he rather thought it might be.

His skin felt hot and itchy now that it had been exposed to air. Ned tried to move the leg but was rewarded with a wave of pain. "Be still," came the order once more. "This bears cleaning if you don't wish to lose it."

Lose his leg or not, what did it matter. Ned made no reply. The young man didn't seem to need any though. He simply called out for something and the door opened once more. A slighter figure came in, clutching a candlestick and a carafe. This one was a woman, clad in grey. A silent sister. As per her vows, she spoke not a word, but knelt net to the young man.

Ned felt his leg being lifted up, his heel resting upon something cool and hard. Heat prickled his sin a few moments later. He looked to see a flickering light near the end, where the woman sat. The next thing he knew was that he swam in a sea of excruciating pain and a third person had entered to force something down his throat.

They were cleaning the wound. Ned could make out little besides spot of white that moved strangely along the wound. He was less inclined to even more after another dose brew flooded his mouth. Somehow he bore through the ordeal, the pain growing duller and duller. Or was it he who had been given too much milk of the poppy? There was hardly any way to tell.

He knew not when they were done, nor when he slipped into oblivion once more. When next he came to he was alone and lying on his back, with a clean bandage wrapped around his wounded leg and a sour taste in his mouth. There was no sight to inspire the belief that anyone had been in his cell.

The door screeched as it opened to admit a man carrying a tray. Plain bread and water were placed before him and he was left to his meal.

It was the strangest of things. He had thought he would be tortured, mauled, killed even. Yet he'd been proven wrong. But mayhap the King did not desire broken hostages. The madman was known for his cruelty. Very likely he enjoyed a slow decline more than a fast one. Disgust rolled in Ned's stomach at the mere thought.

The more he remained within the four walls of his cell, the more he feared. Most days passed one like the other. The gaoler came and went without a word, not answering any sort of questions. After the fifth day, Ned stopped asking himself. He began thinking of manners of escape. Not many ideas came his way and very few were practical. It seemed that his end had come.

The sooner the better. If he was to remain much longer in captivity he feared for his sanity. What good would his sanity be to him when he was before the King though? Better to die a madman, unknowing of his fate. He wished the gods had claimed his mind and not his leg. The limb was useless anyway. For all it had been cleaned and bandaged, it hurt him in waking and sleeping hours alike. There was no peace. Without his wits, he might have been able to ignore it.

As it was, every single day was an endless wait for something to happen.

At a long last, after he knew not how long for the count had slipped from him, the young man came to his cell again. "I see you look better, Lord Stark," he said pleasantly, a small smile curving his lips.

He was older than Ned by a few years at least. He wore no chain though. Simple robes clothed him and there was nothing distinctive about his features. This person had saved his life. For what purpose though? The Lord of Winterfell had little idea. It was likely better not to know in any event.

"I have come to see to the bandage," the stranger explained, keeling by his side once more. He undid the white gauze with careful movements and gazed for a long time at the red puckered flesh. "It heals well, my lord. You should be glad for it I was very nearly decided to have it cut off." He looked at Ned then, dark eyes trained on his face. "The King wishes to speak with you."

A chill ran down his spine. Still, he kept to his silence, holding it like a knight did his shield. The young man did not attempt to coax him into speech. "I am to take you to him." He helped Ned to his feet. For someone with a slender built he was quite strong, able to support his patient's weight with apparent ease.

The gaoler sneered as they made their way past him. That was the most emotion Ned has seen from the man up until that point. Bewildered, he resumed his slow gait with the help of the visitor. They reached the stairs and climbed them carefully one by one. In his mind, Ned wondered if the King would only increase his punishment for keeping him waiting.

If so, he ought not to bother. There was no fate he could devise that was worse than what he had suffered.

* * *

 _A/N: A bit of Ned thrown in the mix for flavour..._

 _I know there was very little detail given here, but I'm saving it for the next chapter where you'll finally see...guess who?_

 _If you guessed Tywin... then, erm, nope. :)_

 _As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'll try for something longer next time, but I make no promises._


	4. It Lingers

Lyanna opened heavy eyes. A dull throbbing pain spread throughout her prone form, stabbing like a thousand needles into thin limbs, the sting exploding by and by into sharply flaring pain. Her mouth was dry as a husk, lips pressed together.

Disoriented, her head snaps to the side as her ears are filled with the sound of wood scraping against cool, smooth rock. As if in a dream, a silhouette approached her, back to a window. The light swarming in creates an unbearably bright backdrop. Spots appear behind the she-wolf's eyes. Instinctively she closes them and tries to raise her hand so she might shield her face. To her consternation, the limb refuses to budge. Her eyes opened.

"M'lady, you are awake." The face of an unknown woman appeared before her. She was somewhere between two ages, with curling dark hair and wide blue eyes. Lyanna might have been fooled for just a moment into calling her Wylla until these small facts registered.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, as realisation crept upon her, the she-wolf forced herself into a sitting position, disregarding the yelp of surprise springing from the other's lips. "M' lady, you cannot…" the rest trailed off as Lyanna pushed the covers off of her body.

"Where is my babe?" The woman before her startled to hear her speak, eyes widening. She rapidly gazed towards the door, as if contemplating making a quick escape. Lyanna was having none of it, however. "My babe," she repeated, her voice harshly crackling like a whip over the other's ears.

Where was the child? Lyanna did remember, she did, falling over. A mistake born out of anger. Rage simmering beneath her skin, she'd been pushed into an act the young woman regretted. Deeply so. The she-wolf moved about, trying to bring her body, resisting as it was, to the edge of the bed so that she might climb down.

She had to find the babe.

"M'lady," the woman interrupted the process, taking Lyanna by the shoulders without so much a warning, "you mustn't move. You are not yet well. I pray you."

The door opened and in entered a young man. Lyanna looked up at his, while at the same trying to get the unknown woman to release her. "That will be all, you may leave," he dismissed the servant woman and sat down upon the edge of the bed. "My lady, you must keep still. Your body is yet weak."

"I do not care about that. I want to know where my child is," she pressed onwards, ignoring the twinges of pain attacking her.

The man sighed softly. He too placed one hand upon her shoulder, upsetting her balance and pushing her backwards into the pillow. "My lady, it grieves me to tell you this, the babe did not survive."

As if struck, the she-wolf's body froze in shock. Her child was dead; the thought rang out in her mind like a death knell. Fingers clenched around the furs upon the bed, she attempted to force herself into speaking. Her babe was gone.

It was then that it registered, with finality, deafening and chilling, that she was no longer in the chambers of her tall tower, but somewhere else. The lack of familiarity produced within her a wave of fear. That had not been the pact, to have her child gone. She was to have given the Prince a little Visenya in exchange for freedom. That had been the promise between then, that Lyanna would birth a tiny dragonling and Rhaegar would find her a vessel to take her to Essos. Certainly she'd not wished for a war, for death, for aught else but to be allowed to sail to the Free Cities.

Yet if she had no daughter, then it must follow that the pact between her and the Prince had fallen through as well. Lyanna's eyes drifted towards the door. She wished, quite foolishly, to question the man before her. To ask whether Rhaegar had come to see her, what it was that he'd said and what could be done. For she knew well enough the laws to know that the loss fell upon her shoulders.

After all, she had sworn him faith in front of a septon and as her lord husband, he could well choose to rid himself of her. Hadn't Maegor the Cruel slain his wives for little else but their inability to give him children? The she-wolf gulped softly. Would Rhaegar take a leaf out of that one king's page and see her head parted from her shoulders?

She'd not meant to fall down. If he would listen to her explanation, he might not blame her, not in a harsh enough manner to necessitate an executioner's blade. The young woman opened her mouth, tongue darting out to touch the dried skin of her lips. She must ask, Lyanna decided after a moment more of consideration.

"Has His Grace come to see me?" she asked softly, voice cracking. The effort of speech made her throat throb.

"The King came as soon as you were brought to the Red Keep, my lady." All blood drained from her face upon hearing those words. The madman had been by to see her? Yet the man before her, upon taking notice of her reaction joined his explanation with, "Rhaegar Targaryen the first of his name rules the Seven Kingdoms now."

"How?" It was hardly the most eloquent response she could muster, but it was the one that came to mind. His father would have had to die.

"His predecessor mysteriously disappeared," the unknown man answered simply. "But 'tis not what I wish to speak to you of, my lady. Now listen to me. The birth of your babe was complicated by a fall as I understood it. The issue is, my lady, that a lot of damage has been done and time is needed so that you may heal. We have done the best we could, yet I fear the chances of another babe to be born are slim."

"I am not to have children again?" she gasped, incredulous. Lyanna liked children well enough and Visenya aside, she had wished for more after her return from wherever her ship would have taken her. She was just a woman like any other.

"I would hesitate to say never," the other encouraged softly. "But my lady would need something of a miracle to manage it."

In any other words, her womb was empty and dry and would remain so until the end of her life. Tears gathered in Lyanna's eyes. She bit down on her lower lip, reminding herself that crying solved nothing. And yet, even as she did so, droplets of salty water ran down her cheeks unchecked. But the stranger was already going on with his duties. He pressed a hand to her abdomen, applying pressure. "Tell me when it hurts, my lady," he instructed, pressing a bit harder.

"Everything hurts," the she-wolf moaned pathetically, pushing his hand away. "Leave me be," she ordered without an inch of hesitation. A child by the King she might not have, but through her marriage certainly it had to be that she could order one maester around.

"Mayhap later," the man concluded, standing to his feet. "My lady, pray do not exert yourself. It can only bring more harm."

Lyanna snorted at the sentiment. What more harm could it possibly bring? As a woman, her use was goner. And if that was no longer there, then it would follow that she must rest upon the political value of the match that had been made. She knew Rhaegar well enough to have understood that affection was not quite what he had for her. Charming as he was, Lyanna was well aware that tolerance could only be pushed so far before it snapped.

* * *

Rhaegar looked at the man before him. "And she is coherent?" he questioned, letting go of the parchment he'd been holding, climbing to his feet. It had been days since she'd been brought to King's landing and all that she'd done was linger in her deep sleep. Pycelle had suggested that she was too far gone to be helped and that it might serve to send her back along with Lord Stark.

The King had refused to believe that for even a moment. Not even Elia had been able to convince him, despite her best attempts. And he was glad for it, he was glad to have exercised some patience and have the knowledge that Lyanna was finally awake.

"I would say that coherence is there, Your Majesty." The answer was pleasing enough. Rhaegar dismissed the man with a wave of the hand. There was little else the acolyte could tell him that hadn't already been said.

When Arthur had told him about what had happened, he could hardly believe his ears. Aye, the she-wolf was reckless and a bit too eager to find trouble, but for all that he'd considered her good enough match, attributing the flightiness to age, not character. He wondered at times whether she had done it on purpose.

It was difficult to believe that any woman would take a tumble down the stairs purposefully, yet one could never know. Her reaction seemed to suggest otherwise. All matters would be solved soon enough, the king told himself. The realm needed rebuilding and for that the Crown needed to show a united front. Whatever was to happen, it must not affect the image presented to the people.

All that he had done could simply not be thrown away. Lyanna Stark was now his lady wife. Whether he still thought it wise or not, was a matter that bore discussion at a later date. For the moment, he needed to keep her within the Red Keep and come to some understanding with her brother. If the North lend its support, then all matters would be easier to solve on the front of diplomacy. All that Rhaegar needed to do was to find the quickest method to bind them all together. A pact within which to have the realm functioning. It was no easy feat, not at all with his father's deeds behind him, looming like a dark shadow waiting to fall upon him.

Shrugging the thought away, the King resolved to speak to the Queen finally. He had kept her waiting long enough and it was time she knew what his decision was, to answer her ultimatum, as it were.


	5. Waves

The acolyte pressed the warm cup into her hands. Lyanna wrinkled her nose yet again. "This concoction? I said I would not drink any of it." The man did not answer straight away. His wont would not permit such ease in response, she suspected. "Take it away and feed it to the plants if you must."

"My lady, my orders were clear. I am to ensure your good health," he explained slowly, patent patience on display. "In order to do so, I've instructions to follow. Surely my lady understands. The Grand Maester prepared this with his own hands." That did little to increase her trust in the man or his teacher.

"I recognise the taste of the overpowering herb," she confessed after a few moments. "Nightshade has never been among my favourite tastes." The acolyte regarded her with unperturbed calm. "If I pleaded, would it make any difference?"

"I doubt it. His Majesty's order leaves little wiggle-room." She sighed. One option was to write to him and tell him in no uncertain terms that she would not be drinking any strange brew from Pycelle's hand. It would likely end in her having the concoction poured down her throat. She did not relish the prospect any more than she enjoyed being stuck in bed resting against a mound of pillows all day.

Lyanna glanced down into the steaming liquid. The scent wafted up to her nose, inundating her nostrils when she allowed it, taking it in along with a rush of cool air. She dared take a sip and grimaced at the taste. The more she ingested the woozier she'd grow, as were the effects of the concoction. She grumbled under her breath about that for a few moments, raising her gaze to the acolyte's. "How long until I may leave this chamber?"

"Should matters progress as they have done up until now, I reckon it won't be long before you are up and about, my lady." He leaned slightly in to pick up a small tray he'd left upon the bed. "Pray do not overexert yourself until that point."

"I would never." He shot her a disbelieving glare. Lyanna chuckled. It was almost as though he'd spent time in the company of her brother. Otherwise she did not see how he might come to mistrust her statement. "I shan't cause trouble."

He nodded at that and took the half-empty cup from her hands and placed it just out of her reach. "You needn't drink it all at once." And a good thing that was. She doubted she'd be able to do that. "I will take my leave, my lady, if that should be all."

Lyanna let him go. Not because she had no more complaints to put to him, but because she knew that too much complaining would only attract attention. Her aim remained to attract as little attention as possible. Which could be particularly difficult to do when she'd essentially become a subject of song though her own actions.

The liquid gathering in the pit of her stomach was starting to take effect, clouding her mind enough for the weight of her own body to become too much to bear. Thankfully, the pillows at her back kept her more or less upright, as much as one could be that sitting in a bed. Still, it helped preserve the remnants of her dignity.

She would not have thought that a botched birthing experience would lay her down with such adamant inflexibility. And for so long. Sitting still and meditating had never been one of her best developed skills. Naturally, incapacitated and starved of companionship, for one could not consider the guard at one's door a companion, she had little other option than to meditate. And the gods knew she had gone over her decisions over and over again, in hopes of building a more enduring justification for those choices.

It was much too late to take anything back, of course.

A series of sounds caught her attention, dragging her from the swirling thoughts. She slowly turned her head to the side, lazily inspecting the couple standing in the doorway. She recognised the Queen and her daughter. But her mind struggled to find a reason for which they would be there. Behind the woman she could see Jaime Lannister's pale face. Her suspicion rose even further as she forced a small smile to accompany a bland greeting already shooting from her lips.

"Lady Lyanna," Elia spoke, coming closer to her bedside. It was then that Lyanna noticed yet another person entering. A wetnurse holding Rhaegar's youngest. The smile froze on her lips. "I hope we are not burdening you with our presence."

"Not at all," she managed after an unnecessarily long moment during which she feared she might not be able to answer at all, for the sight of the babe forced a knot in her throat. "Your Majesty is kind to attend my bedside."

It might have been far smarter to profusely apologise to the woman before her, but then Elia Martell was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. What could her apologies possibly gain her? Instead she moved her eyes to the little girl who was holding her mother's hand, half-hiding behind her at that. "Good day, Your Grace." The girl murmured a reply.

"Come, Rhaenys, there is no need to be shy. Lady Lyanna is clearly pleased to see you." Rhaenys let go of her hand. The wetnurse placed the babe in Elia's arm and she was excused for the time being. "This is Aegon," she introduced the child. The babe was more interested in the dust particles dancing in the daylight.

"He is a beautiful babe." The words hurt. "And his brave older sister is just as beautiful herself." If only they'd leave. The sight of the Queen holding her child cut as deep as any sword might.

The woman seemed to read her. "Would you like to hold him?" Nay, she would not. Lyanna felt her muscles scream in protest. "Here, make a cradle out of your arms."

Why was she doing this? Lyanna met the other's gaze, trying to discern the purpose of her insistence.


End file.
